Bombs, Businessmen and Blouses
by Captain Rilee
Summary: Joanna gnawed on her lip, attempting to keep up, "The Italian roast?" "You couldn't smell it?" She shook her head, "Lestrade is going to kill you and I'm going to watch…maybe even sell tickets." Sherlock's lips twitched, "We can split the fee." (femlock genderbent Joanna Watson at your service)
1. Chapter 1

Joanna woke gradually. It was a slow retreat from the impressions of dreamland but she greeted the morning with a satisfied sigh.

Contently she stretched her limbs, realizing this was the first time in a long while she hadn't woken to an alarm of some kind: a blast from a bugle, her shrieking clock or even a tortured violin. The sun peaked through the curtains to warm her skin. She let the feeling soak in and gave one last lazy stretch before climbing out of bed.

Joanna never knew what to expect when she went downstairs for breakfast. Sherlock could be tearing his hair out, pouring over an experiment, or thoughtfully plucking out notes on his violin, he might not even be there at all.

She toyed with that last thought, considering she hadn't been rudely awakened by any of his nocturnal disturbances, it might be safe to say he was out. If that was the case she'd better steal the shower immediately.

She hastily tracked down her clothes. Realizing quickly she would have to make a trip to the launderette and possibly the dry cleaners judging by the bare state of her wardrobe. It smelled a tad ripe. Considering their last case involved a dip in the Thames (on three separate occasions), Joanna counted herself lucky to even have a stitch to her name.

The only clothes that were actually clean were her pants. She grabbed a pair before pulling her old jeans from the hamper and a slightly rumpled blouse from the back of her chair. Now if she could just find a bra that hadn't been sweated through or submerged in a body of water she would be absolutely sorted.

After wasting precious minutes rooting through her useless dresser, she triumphed when she stooped to check under the bed. An errant bra was cowering beneath the bed skirt—no doubt it had heard the stories of rooftop chases, gun thugs, and shootouts. And that was just last Tuesday.

Joanna smirked at her own whimsy and collected her clothes. At least she was presentable—for today.

She bolted the lock on the loo door firmly behind her. Sherlock had a nasty habit of barging in without fully comprehending the repercussions of his actions. Last week, she took off a few layers of skin when she gave him a dressing down ("Is it _really_ so difficult to simply KNOCK!"). He had deemed it absolutely necessary to consult her when she happened to be bathing.

Living with Sherlock Holmes was definitely a process of trial and error.

She washed up with that healthy efficiency she learned in the army and was ship shape and ready for a cup of tea when she braved the kitchen. Sherlock was nowhere to be found; his coat and scarf were absent as well. Knowing him, he could honestly be anywhere. A case was always a possibility.

With that last thought in her mind, Joanna set to work on a full breakfast. When on the tail of Sherlock Holmes it was hard to determine when exactly you would find your next meal.

Joanna quickly bolted down a sausage, a pair of scrambled eggs, beans on toast and an apple. She was starting in on her third cup of tea when she heard the front door slam and the telltale sound of a certain long-legged, consulting detective skipping the stairs nearly three at a time.

"Jo!" he boomed from the stairwell, "Come at once, we've been summoned!"

He burst through the door with that wild enthusiasm that promised a good knotty case.

"You've been summoned Sherlock, I just tag along to clean up your mess." She abandoned her tea and pushed it across the table in his direction.

"All yours."

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, "There's no time for tea. There's a criminal on the loose."

"There's always time for tea. I need my coat and my gun, so if you'll kindly gulp that down we can be off in a minute."

Sherlock was riffling through his desk and produced his picklocks from a back drawer. His pocket glass was plucked from the table top and stored in an inner pocket.

"_JO_ time is of the essence. Stand up!"

"The faster you finish your tea that faster we can leave."

With a growl and a curse, he turned away to snatch up her coat from its hook. He hurled it, none too kindly, across the table. Only then did he pounce on the cup of tea, he gulped it down quick enough to look like it hurt.

Joanna winced, "Burning your esophagus on scalding hot tea will not help you solve the case. Who will explain your deductions and insult half the Met while your vocal cords are blistered?"

"My voice in fine. Your gun is in my pocket. I'm leaving _now_, whether you are joining me or not."

He swept off with a swish of his coat and she could do nothing but grin as she slipped on her own jacket and followed.

"If you didn't care you wouldn't have taken the tea."

They arrived at New Scotland Yard twenty minutes later and Lestrade was waiting for them, storm clouds brewing on his brow.

"Sherlock, what have you done with my evidence?"

Sherlock dismissed the D.I. with a scoff, tossing an evidence bag onto his desk without ceremony. It held what looked like a bit of dirty, loose ribbon.

"I needed it for a cold case." was his only explanation.

Lestrade snatched up the bag, "You can't go around nicking evidence just because your ego needs a good scratch. Especially now; we've got bigger things about."

Joanna stepped between them, "What seems to be the problem?"

Lestrade handed her an altogether different evidence bag that held an envelope. Sherlock reached out and, after a cursory examination, Joanna had to admit defeat. She placed the bag into the capable hands of her flatmate.

Sherlock opened the bag and pulled the envelope into the open. Even in the washed out lights of Lestrade's office, the paper looked warm. It was a heavy cream color, and looked rather expensive to Joanna's untrained eyes. There was nothing on the outside of the envelope save an address, no recipient, to New Scotland Yard. The letter Sherlock removed from it was pasted together using various words from newspaper and magazine clippings.

_11 o'clock the bell will ring,_

_The boom will sound,_

_The spirits will sing._

"The paper is medium weight car stock, used for durability and presentation, though this is a cheaper version of its counterparts. This can be bought at any stationer's shop. But the selections of clippings are far more interesting. The shinier selections are obviously from magazines (_Harpers Bazaar_ in fact), these thinner pieces are from the _Times_. This is a personal construction from found items. See this scuff? Boot print. It's been on the ground, these were not bought by the sender but found. However the selection of "boom" is curious. The paper is thicker than a newspaper but not as waxy as a magazine. They couldn't find "boom" in the selections so they had to find it somewhere else. Possibly cut from a newsletter or advertisement tacked on the community board at a local coffee or chip shop judging by the grease and coffee stains. Track them down and you'll probably find a witness that saw an individual cutting up scraps in a back corner of the establishment."

Joanna tried, with all her might, with every scrap of stoicism she learned in the army, but she could not prevent the grin that spread across her lips.

_No wonder they think we're shagging._

She shook her head at his antics, "Remarkable."

Sherlock passed the note and envelope back to her. He then turned away to speak with Lestrade, but she could tell by the extra flick in his coat that he was pleased with her praise. She turned the note over in her hand. The author was certainly no poet. Maybe he had a flair for the dramatic, even if he wasn't very successful at executing it?

Joanna returned the note to the envelope and was about to bag it in evidence again when she noticed something.

It was a curious little smudge in the corner of the envelope. It was round, a bit shiny, but before she could assess anything more Sherlock plucked the evidence from her hand and all but shoved her from the room.

"Come Jo, we must be off."

"But Sherlock there's a bit of—"

"Not just now Jo, we have business to attend to."

"It's important—"

But Sherlock was now antagonizing Anderson and Sally was about to get involved if the look of murderous intent was anything to go by. Joanna quickly extricated the detective and attempted a graceful exit. It wasn't until they were safely behind the lift doors that Joanna turned on him.

"Honestly Sherlock, I'm not a child and I'm not your damn body guard. If you insist on involving me in your cases can I at least contribute in some other manner?"

"Do you not enjoying being the muscle or my peanut gallery?"

"It's rather tedious."

"Yes, well, there is that."

"Why did you rush out like that? I saw a finger print that Lestrade might have missed."

He beamed at her, "Excellent Jo. I knew you'd catch it. You're twice as clever as that imbecile they call a forensic expert."

"You really shouldn't antagonize Anderson. He's going to try and have it out with you someday."

"Yes, and I'll see it a mile away. He's just as useless at subterfuge."

She waved away his ego in an attempt to focus, "Fine, but the fingerprint! It could lead us to whoever sent this message."

"It could if it _was_ a fingerprint."

"It's not?" she frowned.

"If you had examined it more closely you would have seen the lack of whorls and realize that no skin had come in contact with that grease. The person wore gloves. However, they were not latex. It was some sort of tight woven fabric, possibly a thin polyester blend common among sports enthusiasts. The fact that it is bicycle grease lends credibility to this."

"Bicycle grease?"

He frowned at her, "Yes, bicycle grease? How could you miss that?"

"It looked like greasy smudge! Couldn't it be from a car?"

"No no no! Car grease is considerable blacker and more gritty. This grease was yellower and had trace amounts of dirt. Definitely from the gears of a bicycle. His chain could have jumped the gears and he had to stop and fix it, common problem among cyclists. No other reason to even touch the chain, the grease is difficult to remove. There are no stamps and no postal markings. The note was delivered to Scotland Yard in person. It didn't go through the mail. So how did it get here?"

The lift dinged merrily and the doors opened to the ground floor.

"It was delivered by a bicycle messenger."


	2. Chapter 2

The busy London streets moved steadily past the cab window.

"Where are we going?" Joanna asked.

"Courier office."

"There must be a hundred couriers in London. How do you know which one?"

"I don't. But there are seven possibilities in the vicinity of the Met. Of those seven, only five are far enough to require the use of a bicycle. Three do not employ bicycles but motor bikes. Of the remaining two, only one is in the vicinity of a decent eating establishment."

"You told Lestrade a coffee _or_ chip shop."

"But _both_ stains were present on the clippings, which I _did_ tell him. It's not my problem if he takes my suggestions so explicitly. Coffee shops do not sell food that would leave the stains we saw, and no chip shop would carry Italian roast. I simply looked for a nicer eatery in the vicinity of the courier's office."

Joanna gnawed on her lip, attempting to keep up, "The Italian roast?"

"You couldn't smell it?"

She snorted. "Lestrade is going to kill you and I'm going to watch…maybe even sell tickets."

Sherlock's lips twitched in what Joanna now knew to be a smile, "We can split the profits."

The cab rolled to a stop but Sherlock was almost halfway out the door already. He pitched it open and leapt from the vehicle like a great black cat pouncing on its prey.

Joanna hastily paid the driver with the few bills in her wallet and dashed after him.

The courier office was wedged between a launderette and the aforementioned coffee shop like an afterthought. The launderette was housed in an old brick building, the rust on the rain pipe a testament to its continued existence. Whereas the coffee shop was all lines and angles, metal and glass. As if two different contractors built up the shops on either side and left this little scrap of no man's land to separate their creations.

Sherlock swept into the tiny office with all the pomp and arrogance of a public school boy. His haughty air invaded every crevasse of the narrow room. Joanna nearly rolled her eyes at his antics until she saw Sherlock bypass the few customers in line and waltz right up to the receptionist sitting at her tiny desk.

He slammed his hands onto the desktop and hissed, actually _hissed_, at the poor startled secretary, whose only crime was coming to work that morning.

"I had a very important package delivered today to the offices of Scotland Yard. Time sensitive information has now been compromised due to the inept operation of your staff! I demand an explanation! Where is your supervisor?"

The secretary, white as a sheet, stumbled out an apology as he loomed over her, "I'm s-so sorry sir! My supervisor, you see he's out today. I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience—"

"Sorry is a start." Sherlock all but growled, "Where is the employee assigned to my delivery? I would like a word."

"P-paul was on that package this morning," she stuttered, "I can fetch him for you."

He narrowed his eyes, "You do that."

Sherlock straightened as the secretary fled to retrieve the courier. Joanna scolded him under her breath, shooting apologetic glances at the customers behind them.

"Was that entirely necessary? Her boss isn't even around. She's here alone."

Sherlock sighed in what could only be resignation, "Why do you think I had to frighten her? She would never have let me talk to the employees if I simply asked. Empty reserved parking space outside tells me her boss is not here; all the better for me to make a ruckus and force her to placate the agitated customer."

"If you do not apologize before we leave I will sabotage your experiments for the rest of the month."

Sherlock went very still. He knew the edge in her voice was no empty bluff.

"Joanna, is that really necessary—"

"A _month_."

He growled petulantly, "If you insist."

The secretary returned, much less frazzled than before, but there was still that uneasy, wild eyed look to her.

"If you'll just follow me sir, I—I can show you to an office where you can—may um, talk in private."

The followed her down the narrow hallway into a sparsely furnished office. The only chair was currently occupied by a rather nervous looking teenager. He wore cycling shoes and pants with a jacket bearing the name of the courier office plastered across it. A cap was hanging halfway out of his pocket where he absently stashed it. He looked like he needed a strong drink, even if he didn't look old enough to legally consume one.

As they strode forward Joanna poked Sherlock sharply in the ribs. He scowled but turned and thanked the secretary for her trouble.

The secretary simply fled.

Joanna tried to count it as a victory.

"Let's not waste any time shall we Paul?" Sherlock towered over the young man. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I'm here to make sure bad things don't happen. You had a package to deliver this morning to Scotland Yard. The contents are a potentially deadly threat. Who was the sender?"

The boy went sheet white and started to babble, "Threat? What _threat_? I had nothing to do with that! I thought you were gonna get me fired! Who _are_ you?"

"We've been through this, I'm Sherlock Holmes, you're Paul, that's Joanna."

She smiled cheerily at the young courier from her post at the door, "Hello."

Paul's glance shifted between them, "But he—you aren't the bloke who gave me the package."

Sherlock impatiently stared him down, "Paul it is _very_ important you tell me _exactly_ what happened with that package."

"A-Are you the police?" the boy stammered.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Paul you must focus, _the package_."

Paul was getting the hang of it now, "Right. Sorry. Okay. The package wasn't scheduled. It was a walk-in right off the street. Matter of fact I saw him in the coffee shop right next door when I came in for my shift."

"Do you always get coffee there?"

"Suzie's got the best coffee. Close to work. She's cute too."

Sherlock impatiently waved this away.

"What about the man? Did you recognize him? Was he a regular?"

"No. He sat in the corner. Suz was complaining that he had her scissors but he gave her a big tip so she let him, even if she didn't like him."

"What did he look like? _Anything_ you can remember."

"Er—average height. Bit fat, like an officer worker. Fancy suit, kinda shiny. Married, I saw his ring. Spilled coffee on himself."

"Details. A name? Pay cash or card for the delivery?"

"Cash. Walked right in after me and handed over the envelope. Wanted it to be at Scotland Yard before ten. Promised a bonus if I did it within the hour."

"And did he give you a way to contact him for this bonus?"

"His number." Paul shifted slightly, uncomfortable.

"And?" Sherlock prompted. "What did you do?"

The boy looked affronted, "What are you talking about? I didn't do anything!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his voice evened out and Joanna was having a difficult time deciding whether she wanted to laugh or sigh in exasperation.

"Phone number was a fake. You found out but couldn't do anything about it. Had to do the job but you wanted the extra cash. You followed him. You can't wear the hat at work, it's unprofessional and useless considering you have to wear a helmet. You didn't want to be recognized. Turned your coat inside out to keep from calling attention to yourself. Tell me when's the last time you had a chance to stretch those light fingers?"

"His jacket?" Joanna challenged.

Sherlock seemed bored, "His cuff is still wrong side out and his tag is up at the back of his neck."

Paul stared openly, completely gobsmacked.

"Do close your mouth, it's dreadfully rude. Don't panic I'm not here to arrest you. I'm here to find the sender of that letter. Do you have it?"

Joanna frowned, he lost her, "Have what?"

"The man's wallet."

Paul was getting defensive, "I've been tricked with phony numbers before, I always check now. When I figured he was pulling one over I followed him."

Sherlock eyes were hooded in concentration, "Where did he go? Anywhere particular?"

Paul tried to explain, "I just wanted the bonus he promised. Sure I hadn't done the job yet, but as soon as I had my money I'd be off like a shot. I lifted his wallet before he even got to the corner. Came straight back here."

Sherlock pursed his lips, "Efficient." Joanna nearly snorted at his dry tone, high praise indeed, "I need that wallet."

Paul pulled it from his coat and handed it over without qualm. "I just wanted my money, I was going to return the wallet later."

Joanna could tell Sherlock had stopped listening the second he laid eyes on the wallet. He opened the fine leather and worked it over with a keen eye and clever fingers.

He was muttering under his breath again, she only caught a handful of words before Sherlock tossed the wallet back at the boy.

"Thank you. That was most revealing. Keep your eyes open and do try to stay straight. You may prove useful."

Paul was bemused but he almost smiled, "Thanks. It's been almost a year now. Just get a little itchy, you know?"

Sherlock buttoned his coat and gave Paul a small smile, "Oh believe me, I know."

The swept from the courier's office and onto the street but Sherlock charged off to the corner before Joanna could get her bearings.

She jogged to catch up, "Now what?"

"Hector Lawsun." Sherlock scanned the crowd. "He's still here. Stranded. No money. No wallet. Likely has a cell phone but won't call anyone. No one to pick him up."

"Sherlock, he could be anywhere."

"Wrong. Stranded. No one to call because he has no friends. Estranged wife."

"Explain." Joanna demanded.

Sherlock sighed his exasperation and locked eyes with her.

"Waitresses are notoriously good judges of character. Annoyed with a customer? Bad customer. Nice people are nice to waitresses, especially pretty breakfast waitresses. Not nice to waitress means he's not a nice man. He's well off, fancy suit, designer wallet, multiple platinum credit cards. He is either independently wealthy or self-made businessman. Otherwise he'd have been in for work by now. Business cards have no work related contact information so I'll wager with the former."

"Can't he have just called in sick?"

"This man practically screams luxury, even to an untrained courier. Unlikely he's taking orders from anyone. His numerous receipts are all smaller charges; he goes out frequently but always on a limited scale. Likely with only his wife for company. No friends, allies, or colleagues, at least none that he would treat to dinner. Which means they wouldn't likely be inconvenienced to pick him up. Why would he even be at a restaurant that early _alone_? Row with the missus and he left early to avoid her. There was also a receipt for a jeweler. He bought a ring: wife not girlfriend. Price says apology not anniversary/birthday. Not on good terms."

Joanna considered him for a moment, "You got a thing for waitresses I need to know about Sherlock?"

"Oh do shut up and help me look. He can't have gone far. Lestrade called us less than an hour ago. Where would he go? Stranded."

"Someplace free?" she offered.

His eyes lit up, "The park!"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was on the trail and she had to bolt to keep up. Joanna hadn't been gone from the army long and she was still in fine shape; but if she was an athlete, Sherlock was a bloody Olympian.

He wove through the throng of traffic, both vehicular and human, like some great raven on the hunt. She did her best to follow him, it was all she could do sans grabbing his coat tails and hanging on.

He crossed the street in a few simple bounds while she struggled to scurry between cabs and lorries without starting a traffic jam. She counted herself lucky she suffered only the honks of their horns and a choice salute or two.

He disappeared through the gate of the park and she sprinted full tilt after the detective, only to nearly send them both tumbling to the ground when he stopped right inside the entrance.

She pulled back as best she could but they still collided with a mighty inelegant _oof_.

"Good God Jo, we're tailing a suspect not rehearsing for rugby." Sherlock muttered crossly, dusting off his coat.

"You practice rugby, you rehearse Shakespeare." She corrected him a little too smugly.

"I have no need for a lecture in semantics, be useful and use your eyes."

"Fat bloke in a pricey suit?"

"Don't forget the coffee he spilled on himself."

Joanna eyed the crowd with skepticism, "That will narrow the playing field considerably. Do you have any idea how big this park is?"

In a seemingly arbitrary movement Sherlock strode decidedly out to the east end of the park.

"Approximately 1.4 square kilometers."

Joanna scanned the crowd as they went; tourists, families, artists, babysitters, dog walkers, it seemed impossible.

"It'll take too long! There's only two of us. How are we supposed to find him?"

"Simple. He'll look out of place among the regular park goers. We already have a description of his appearance. How many businessmen will be out and about at this hour? In a park no less? No, he'll stick out like a sore thumb, he'll know that. He'll go some place out of the way, away from the foot traffic. A nice, quiet spot away from curious eyes until it's time to make his move."

Sherlock's eyes roamed the surrounding crowd, considering the options. He pulled his phone from his coat.

"Bells—sing, spirits..." he stared intently at the screen and his fingers danced about the keyboard, "Ah!" he barked triumphantly.

"What? What is it?"

Sherlock grinned and charged down one of the shaded paths leading away from the crowds.

"Come Jo we have a bomber to catch."

"Where?"

"He'll want to watch. They always do. It's like their child on the first day of school, they can't help themselves. They'll want the best seat in the house. He'll want to be close to his target, a perfect casual viewing distance with an easy escape route."

"But we don't know his target."

"Ah, but we do. He told us already in his note."

"I thought we followed him here because he's stranded?" Joanna was embarrassed to find she was very close to whining.

"We did, but his target makes his intentions much clearer."

"For some of us." Joanna grumbled.

"_Enough_ with the sulking Jo. What was in the note?" he quizzed her, "What pieces of information do we have?"

"The time. The weapon and, according to you," she added scathingly, "the venue."

"Precisely."

Joanna continued to elaborate, "_11 o'clock_ is the time, _boom_ is the bomb and…" she frowned, grasping at straws, "_singing spirits_?"

"You've got it!" he congratulated, then he saw her scowl. "Perhaps not."

"Sherlock just tell me!"

"Do bear in mind this is just a working hypothesis: He's been staying close. We know that from his use of the courier directly near Scotland Yard, coffee in the shop next door, his lack of cab receipts, or an Oyster Card. It would be safe to say that his target is nearby by default. In his note he used _bell_; it's directly attached to the time, so we're probably working with a bell tower—"

"He wants to blow up Big Ben!" Joanna cried.

"_Focus_ Jo," Sherlock chastened her sharply, "That's simply the first line. His second line is _boom_, possibly an explosion, most likely a bomb. But it's his last line that tells us everything. _The spirits will sing_: Spirits, ghosts, the dead, likely a graveyard in close proximity to a bell tower. Who would want to blow up a graveyard? Depends on who's buried there—"

"Westminster Abbey?"

Sherlock clapped her on the shoulder, "Very good Jo, you're getting quicker at this."

"But Westminster is a block over. He won't be able to see anything."

"He only needs to kill and hour or so before the bomb is set to go off."

Joanna nodded, that did make sense. She picked up his thread of reasoning, "But what about the singing?"

He pulled his phone from the folds of his coat.

On the screen was a bulletin for the events to take place at Westminster that day. On the roster, at 11:00am was a visiting University choir aptly named _Joyful Spirits_.

"Joyful spirits=_the spirits will sing_. You think he's got something against choir boys?"

"Only one way to find out."

They followed the path along the edge of the park, the crowds thinned and, despite the proximity to the street and greater London area—it was surprisingly quiet.

"What makes you think he'll be over here?"

Sherlock gestured around them, "He needs to be discreet. The theft of his wallet did little to dissuade his plans for the morning, it simply moved them up. Without a wallet he can't sit in a café or restaurant, without looking conspicuous or rude. So he has to change his view. He can't stay on the street, too suspicious, especially with the CCTV cameras. The park provides cover, anonymity and peace. The tree line breaks up closer to Horse Guard's Road, there will be less foot traffic there. Come Hector it's almost time…"

Then, as if conjured by the mention of his name, Joanna spotted a man at a bench at the end of the path. He was thicker set with broad shoulders wearing a gorgeous suit that was growing impossibly wrinkled by his posture. His shoulders slumped forward and he was staring down at his hands.

He was still well out of ear shot when Sherlock stopped dead and swore loudly.

"No no no!" The detective cried in despair. "My God, have all the decent criminals gone on holiday? This is absurd."

Joanna was suddenly hit with a disturbing mental image of Sherlock shouting from Simon Cowel's chair on _Got Talent_, substituting criminals as contestants with Lestrade as a guest judge.

She choked on her laughter as Sherlock continued to prattle on, "Damn, I should have considered this when we knew about the coffee, stupid stupid."

"What?" Joanna asked when she had finally mastered her composure, "What's wrong?"

"Come Joanna, think! He's having problems with his wife, no other personal relationships to speak of, he spills coffee on himself the morning of his little campaign. He doesn't even remember to bring scissors to make the note! It was an impulsive whim, not a calculated vendetta."

He gestured wildly to the man at the bench.

"What do you see?" he demanded.

"Eh—a pathetic looking bloke in a suit." Joanna offered.

"Does he look like a dangerous vigilante?"

Joanna studied the hunched figure. Coffee stain on his cuff, tie askew, hair mussed and a look of utter deprecation on his face.

"Well no—"

"Exactly."

Joanna took a deep breath. _How am I already so tired? It's not even eleven yet._

"Sherlock, there's no such thing as an assassins face. Normal people can do bad things."

"Of course they can, and they do. I've built an entire career whose foundation is that very principle—but this man, he's not a bomber. He's depressed and was hoping to impress with this little stunt."

"Impress who?"

Sherlock simply stared at her a moment. When he finally spoke it was very slowly, as if he were talking to a young child.

A young, mentally deficient child. "His wife, of course, who else?"

"Sherlock—" but he jumped straight in to his deductive diatribe that made the low timber of his voice positively sinful:

"No self-made, self-respecting businessman would wear a suit a size too big with a trouser cuff a half inch too short. All his receipts were for restaurants, jewelers etc. He's trying to buy his wife's affection at the expense of his wallet and his own dignity. He probably inherited the business and kept it up, ignoring his own goals. Sentiment has that effect on people. Now he's in the middle of an identity crisis, his wife is possibly having an affair and he has little to show for his life."

Joanna frowned in disbelief, "So he's decided to blow up Westminster Abbey to make himself feel better?"

"He was never actually going to blow it up, he probably knew about the choir. Maybe it was a favorite of his wife's? He wanted to get her attention while simultaneously getting back at her. It's nothing but a fantasy. The Met, Secret Service, MI6, they receive thousands of threats a day. Most of them are empty, this happens to be one of them."

With that he turned on his heel and swept back up the path.

"Where are you—Sherlock! We can't just leave him there!" Joanna cried.

Sherlock stopped and blinked at her. "Why not?"

"What he did is a crime. We have to call Lestrade."

Sherlock waved this away. "I texted him when we got to the park, he should be en route as we speak. I'm up for a spot of kebab. Do you think they'd still be hanging about at this hour?"

"Sherlock we have to make sure he doesn't leave."

"How is that our problem?"

Joanna scowled at him, "Just because we don't have to do the paperwork at the end of the day doesn't mean we can saunter off when you've finished playing with the puzzle."

Sherlock's brow furrowed; Joanna recognized that particular face. It was the face Sherlock made when he found her confusing. Examples include thanking Mrs. Hudson for cleaning the flat, or consulting with Molly on an autopsy. Even over tipping the barista sent him into a state of befuddlement that never ceased to amuse her.

Common decency seemed to have that effect on him.

"But—I solved it." Sherlock pressed. "There's nothing more to do. He's not going to blow up Westminster and he poses no further threat."

She planted her feet and stared him down. "Go hunt down your kebab. I'm staying."

It was then that Sherlock caught a glimpse of Captain Watson, Royal Army Marine Corps Medic. He could see corporals running for cover in the wake of that stare, and they would be perfectly justified. Sherlock tried to smother his amusement.

He sighed dramatically, "If you insist on babysitting the man, might I suggest a less obvious lookout?"

Joanna's spine lost some of its rigidity and she looked almost sheepish. They were still loitering in the walkway and here she was poised like some misplaced palace guard.

He looked her over, "Imperious doesn't suit you."

She cocked an eyebrow, "You would know."

The pair settled themselves on the green a little ways off the path. They were flirting with Lawsun's site line but Sherlock insisted that any closer would be too obvious. As they waited he regaled her with a pithy story of one of his earliest cases involving a stolen pencil box, the headmaster's mistress and stint in the broom closet.

Joanna was almost on her back from laughter, "You did no such thing." She challenged, wiping tears from her eyes.

"You think I couldn't?" he countered, quick to defend his honor.

"There is no way you would hole up in a cupboard for that long and disguised as a _maid_?" she snorted, "Impossible."

He shook his head, spreading his hands helplessly, though a smile was playing at the corner of his lips.

"Times were hard in those establishing years. Consulting for the Met came much later. Cheating spouses and lost objects were my bread and butter." He continued as if closing an argument, "Do you have any idea how unnecessary women's stockings are?"

This only made Joanna laugh harder and Sherlock's deep chuckle joined her. As she calmed herself she stole a glance at Lawsun.

Something was in his hand, it was shiny and bounced the sunlight brightly like a mirror, enough to hurt her eyes.

"What's he got there?" Joanna squinted.

Sherlock glanced up at their target, assessing the scene, "Oh, did I forget to mention he's been contemplating suicide?"

The object in question suddenly took shape and Joanna scrambled to her feet.

"Jesus! A _knife_? Dammit Sherlock—call Lestrade!" and with that she tore off down the path.

Sherlock slowly got to his feet and pulled his phone from his coat.

_ETA?_

_SH_

Sherlock watched Joanna approach Lawsun slowly in an attempt not to startle him. He watched Hector bristle at the intrusion, his hand tightening on the knife. Joanna's hands were open, arms wide and placating. Sherlock could imagine what her voice sounded like, calm and even and disarming. That would help.

His phone pinged and he glanced down.

_Got your text at another crime scene. _

_Just round the corner now._

_Lestrade_

Suddenly he heard the sirens and Sherlock could have throttled the entire Met for their stupidity.

Because now Lawsun was desperate, he knew those sirens were meant for him. Hector leapt to his feet at the sound of the police and his imminent capture. Self-harm was suddenly transformed into the cold instinct of survival.

But it was only when Joanna blocked Lawsun's escape route that Sherlock broke into a run.

_The knife._

Joanna was trained, she could handle a white collar civilian with a bruised ego and a blade, but Lawsun was nearly frantic. Cornered rats bite and Lawsun was rabid if his wide eyes and restless limbs were anything to go by.

_Too far. _

There was too much distance between Sherlock and the pair. Lawsun was inching closer to Jo. She didn't have much ground to give without allowing his escape and he only crept closer. Sherlock cursed his flatmate.

_Just move Jo! Lestrade will chase him down, that's what he's good for!_

But then Lawsun lunged.


	4. Chapter 4

Someone cried Joanna's name and Sherlock could do little but watch as his flatmate danced out of the knife trail and pivoted back to land a punch square in Lawsun's jaw.

Sherlock had been on the receiving end of that fist before and knew it would take a few moments for Lawsun to recover. So imagine the surprise when the would-be bomber simply shrugged it off and swung the knife on Joanna's unprotected back. Joanna twisted around but she was still too close.

That's when Sherlock took him out at the knees. Using his not inconsiderable weight and added momentum Sherlock dove for Lawsun's legs and sent them crashing to the ground. Lawsun conveniently broke Sherlock's fall at the expense of the businessman's skull slamming into the pavement.

He was out cold.

Joanna's eyes were blown wide, "My God, is he dead?"

Sherlock checked his pulse, "No, but when he wakes he'll certainly wish he was."

There was an approaching thunder of noise and Joanna turned at the sound.

"That would be Lestrade." Sherlock drawled from his crouch on the path. "Behind as always."

He straightened as the DI and his team arrived on the scene.

Lestrade said nothing as he looked over the body, Sherlock's scuffed trousers and reddened palms. It was only when his eyes landed on the doctor that he cried, "Good God! Joanna what happened?"

Sherlock frowned, curious as to why Lestrade would ask his flatmate and not him what had unfolded. But then he saw it.

A large, wet patch of what could only be blood was slowly darkening Joanna's blouse. She brushed aside her coat to take a closer look.

She hummed with interest, examining her clothing.

"It looks worse than it is." She reassured them.

Lestrade stormed over, "How would you know? You can't even see the damn thing." He pulled her coat from her shoulders and even went as far as to reach for the hem of her blouse.

Joanna stilled his hand, "_Ah_—I would rather _not_ strip in public if it's all the same to you Greg. I have it under control."

Lestrade's face turned a remarkable shade of pink and he blustered with embarrassment.

"Yes, of course. But you need to get that looked at." He shoved her coat back into her hands, "Nasty things knife wounds. I don't need you bleeding all over my crime scene. Ambulance is just behind us." With that, he rushed off to deal with the unconscious form of Hector Lawsun.

Joanna held out her coat to Sherlock. "Hold this."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed the collar as Joanna riffled through the pockets. The consulting detective suddenly became a glorified coat rack—a role he did not appreciate playing. Just as he was about to comment Joanna found what she was looking for, if her cry of triumph was anything to go by.

"I was hoping I still had this." She muttered, pulling out a square compact mirror.

Sherlock was dubious, "And what are you going to do with that? Powder your nose?"

Joanna ignored him and turned her attention to the compact. She opened it to reveal two mirrors: an average reflection and a magnified version. She snapped the compact into two and comprehension dawned.

Sherlock wordlessly draped her coat over his arm and took the magnified mirror from her hand. She turned and lifted her blouse while holding her own piece to reflect his. Their makeshift rearview mirror allowed her to assess the damage.

It was only when Anderson did a double take that Sherlock realized that people were staring. For some it was simple curiosity at her exposed flesh, others examined her body with open appreciation, and a select few ogled with sheer desire.

When scowling made no impact on them he barked at Joanna, "For God's sake put your shirt down."

"An infection means I'd be out of commission for weeks." She snapped and then winced when it pulled at her injury, "Is that what you'd like?" she grimaced.

Sherlock bit back a smart retort and settled on the task at hand.

He kept his mirror hand steady and assessed the wound with a critical eye.

The wound stretched across her side to her lower back. It was certainly long, not deep enough for stitches but bleeding more freely than he liked.

He reached up to his throat and pulled his scarf loose.

When he broke her line of sight with the mirror, Joanna turned to reprimand him only to find his scarf in his hand and an expectant look on his features.

"Sherlock, that's not necessary I can wait—"

"The ambulance isn't even close to our location. Notice the obvious lack of annoying sirens. You don't even need stitches, if we go straight back to Baker Street we can attend to ourselves."

"But it's your scarf—"

"I have more at home. Besides, this is the one from Mycroft and Mummy wouldn't let me burn it. I'd be able to honestly tell her it for a good cause."

Before she could protest Sherlock brushed her blouse aside and proceeded to tie his scarf in a rather more complex tourniquet that she thought was completely necessary.

But he did rather like to show off.

She replayed the day's events in her mind and sighed at the thought of Hector Lawson.

"Do you think he'd do it?" she asked Sherlock as he finished off her dressing. "Kill himself? It all seems so wasteful."

"Statistically unlikely, men have more violent deaths. Jumpers, hanging, guns. Knives are usually for attention, much like his use of the note. Besides it's easier to get ones hands on a knife, carries a lighter sentence than a firearm and goes straight to the ego."

"He _did_ need a bit more confidence. Think you could spare him some?" she teased.

"Not on your life." His fingers stilled at her bandage. _Well, possibly that._

But Joanna paid him no mind, she was already turning away to speak with Lestrade.

The Detective Inspector took in her tourniquet with little more than a raised eyebrow and for that she was grateful. Lawsun was being attended to with the ambulance on its way. Joanna, with little else to do, attempted to answer all of Lestrade's questions to the best of her knowledge.

Sherlock dropped her coat absently across her shoulders and turned away to find some form of amusement.

The consultant loathed the bureaucracy that summed up the end of a case; the tedium of statements, paperwork, trials and courts. It all held very little interest to him. His job was over. It was up to the police and the lawyers to keep the facts straight and the criminals behind bars.

Joanna understood Sherlock's boredom, even shared it at times. But walking Lestrade through their escapades, catching (red handed!) his muffled smile at their antics and helping him close a case. It allowed her to decompress, organize the proceedings into a logical train of thought and take a deep breath—not necessarily in that order.

It was a rather nice, even cleansing, routine.

"This is my fault."

Joanna was pulled from her thoughts at this. She frowned when she caught Lestrade eyeing her bandage. Remorse etched in the lines of his face.

"Greg, I'm the one who didn't wait for the professionals."

"And I'm the one who sent the stroppy consultant on a wild goose chase."

This gave her pause, there was something in Lestrade's voice that told her all she needed to know.

She smirked and was more amused than anything when she asked, "Detective Inspector, are you saying you called just to entertain one of your consultants?"

"_One_ of my consultants? He's my _only_ consultant. Pitched a fit like a ninny when I brought in a retired cat burglar a few years ago. You'd have thought I insulted his mother the way he looked at me."

As tempting as that nugget of information was, Joanna persisted, "_Deflection_."

Greg sighed and gave her a vague shrug.

"National threats aren't exactly my division if you'll remember. But an occupied Sherlock is less likely to experiment, harass or otherwise wreak havoc upon the city, so yeah, I called him to distract him."

Joanna blinked, "I don't know if I want to hit you or kiss you."

Greg snorted at the absurdity of that particular mental image.

"How about you buy me a pint and we call it even?" he grinned.

"Done."

The sound of outraged voices robbed them of their amusement. They glanced over to find a small group forming, and if their mutterings were anything to go by—they were making bets. A familiar pair stood at the nucleus of the circle; represented by two patches of dark brown hair. One stick straight and unfortunately unflattering, one wildly curly and rakishly untidy.

Anderson was currently turning purple with rage while Sherlock stared imperiously down his nose at the colorful forensic tech.

"I thought I told you to keep the children separate." Joanna complained, half seriously.

"Like I have any more control over that man than you do?" Lestrade argued.

"We should be going anyways." But Joanna was reluctant to interfere with the bets.

"Oi! Sherlock!" Lestrade called across the scene, "I'm going to need your statement sooner or later."

Sherlock abruptly turned his back on Anderson who deemed this a personal affront. It was only the hands of his colleagues that stopped him from physically attacking the consultant.

"I have far more important things to do than suffer through an interrogation." Sherlock objected.

He took Joanna by the arm and guided her away, "Come along Jo, it's time to go."

"So I'll just drop by Baker Street this afternoon?" Lestrade offered.

Sherlock was dismissive, "I'm in the middle of a very delicate exper—"

"That would be fine." Joanna interrupted, much to her flatmate's displeasure.

"If you are quite finished, we have an injury to attend to." Without waiting for a response Sherlock dragged her away towards the street to find a taxi.

"I'm not an invalid." Joanna protested.

"But you _are_ injured." Sherlock countered.

He shot his hand high into the air, "_Taxi_!"

After unceremoniously shoving her into the cab, Sherlock spent the ride home deep in thought. He stared intently out the window, the curve of his hand resting against his mouth.

Joanna let him be. He was like that sometimes.

Nearly all their cases left him buzzing with a high. Certain cases left him giddy for days. Then there were a select few that sent him into this quietude Joanna found hard to describe.

She might describe it as pensive, but his eyes were too engaged. It was not a sulk—that usually entailed a healthy amount of huffing, flinging and sighing in dramatic proportions. In another she might say it was fretful but he was perfectly calm—and let's be honest, Sherlock Holmes doesn't fret.

She once tried to form a correlation between these cases. The quietude cases. But she could find none.

From what she could remember, there were three times this had happened.

Each case was very different. One, a spousal murder: crime of passion. Joanna incidentally discovered the murder weapon when she ingested some of the poisoned wine by chance. Another was a white collar forger. That involved a rather complicated jump from a second story onto the fleeing suspect. The last was the kidnapping of a rather clever little beagle named Fredrick. Fredrick was also a biter Joanna discovered personally.

Joanna rested against the seat, trying not to jostle her injury and open it up again. It was a short cab ride back to Baker Street but her awkward position was quickly growing uncomfortable. A distraction was definitely in order, even if that meant becoming one.

"So," she huffed, "what happened to your plans for kebab?"

He started at her interruption, "What?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

He turned back to the window scowling, "Finding you bleeding all over the sidewalk effectively ruined my appetite."

Had Donovan or Anderson been present they would have felt vindicated at the detective's callous attitude towards Joanna's little inconvenience. Even Lestrade might berate him for his response.

But she was not Lestrade, Donovan or (thank _God_) Anderson. She was Joanna Watson, his flatmate and friend.

She knew that edge in his voice wasn't anger, irritation or even sarcasm. He was upset. But she was having difficulty grasping _why_.

Instead of wasting precious energy puzzling out her companion, Joanna pulled her phone from the pocket of her coat and scrolled through the contact list.

"Well, I'm feeling like Indian, do you want anything?"

He shifted slightly, "I _wanted_ Turkish kebab." He was griping now, annoyed at his plans being disrupted.

_Better than the brooding. _

She found the number for their local Indian takeaway and dialed.

"Then order it yourself…Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery."

Sherlock's voice interrupted whatever the server on the other end was attempting to tell her.

"Green curry and the Seekh kebab and for God's sake make sure they get the raika in the bag this time."

Joanna smothered her smile with a cough, "Sorry, yes: 221B Baker Street and I'll take the green curry—"


	5. Chapter 5

They pulled up to the flat as Joanna finished their order. She was assured their food would arrive within an hour or their next charge would be free.

She climbed out of the cab and left Sherlock to deal with the fare. Digging her keys from her pocket she let them into Baker Street, leaving the door open behind her.

She passed Mrs. Hudson's door without a greeting. Their _landlady_ (keep telling yourself that darling) was going to be away for the day, ("Very late dears, may even spend the night if it gets too dreary out.") visiting her nephew in Portsmouth.

Joanna took the steps one at a time instead of her normal leap routine up to their door. Her injury should have clotted by now but she was careful not to take any unnecessary risks.

She fitted her key in the lock and let herself into their flat. The familiar sight, sound and smell of home soothed the weariness that was lurking, waiting to ambush her.

It was amazing how fast an injury and the crash of an adrenaline rush could incapacitate a person.

The doctor heard the front door shut as she plodded up to her bedroom on the second floor. The sound of Sherlock's step on the landing followed her as she entered her room and closed the door.

Joanna gingerly pulled her coat from her shoulders. Her back was stiffening and the cut was stinging awfully.

_Best clean up. _

She hung her coat on the back of a chair and tried vainly to muster up a new shirt from the dark corners of her wardrobe. It was no use; even her pajamas smelled ripe. She was definitely going to be sleeping in her skin that night.

She made quick work of the buttons on her blouse but froze at the sound of her bedroom door opening.

She whirled around to find Sherlock standing there with her med kit under one arm, a bowl of hot water in his hand, and a pair of towels draped over his forearm—reminiscent, strangely, of an attentive butler.

Clutching her blouse closed, Joanna swallowed her amusement and put on a stern face.

"Sherlock, you really _must_ knock when you open a door. It's not a difficult concept."

Sherlock dismissed this, "There's no time for propriety with an open wound and the possibility of infection." Then, with a sweep of his arm, he liberated her bedside table of her mobile charger, leisure reading and her hair brush.

She glared at Sherlock as her copy of _Pygmalion_ was dumped on the floor.

"Was that entirely necessary?"

He looked up from his arrangement, his brow furrowed, "No harm done." As if that was a perfectly viable answer.

She decided to let this one go and gestured to the spread he brought for her.

"Thank you Sherlock I can take it from here."

He frowned at her, "You're remarkably flexible Joanna but you're not a contortionist. You won't be able to properly dress the damage."

He settled himself on the edge of the bed within arm's reach of the first aid kit.

"Allow me." He insisted.

Joanna bit back a retort and took a deep breath. Her blouse fell open as she reached up to rub her temples, finding abruptly that a headache was looming.

This did little for an accommodating state of mind.

"Sherlock," she said sharply, "I am perfectly capable of attending—"

"Joanna, let me help you." The gentleness in his voice disarmed her and she looked up to find him staring at her.

Any other bloke would take the opportunity to ogle her bits she had so generously put on display when she neglected to re-button her blouse. But he wasn't looking at her skin, or her bra or the generous curve of her breast. His gaze fell much farther down, towards her belt line, where the stain of her own blood had ruined her shirt and his scarf beyond repair.

_Oh_.

She considered him for a moment.

She didn't have eyes in the back of her head, and the range of motion required to dress her wound was a little beyond her at present.

Even so, the independent, stubborn, decidedly _English_ part of her was sorely tempted to throw him from the room and attend to it herself.

As a compassionate medical doctor, she thought about reassuring him it wasn't his fault and playing the tough, I've-had-worse, solider card.

They would both be true, both be fair options. She would be fully within her rights to choose either one of them.

He had nothing to apologize for but she could see it plain as day. The focus in his eyes, that surety and directness, the determination to fix her and make it right…

It was too much.

Remorse was a rare sight on the face of Sherlock Holmes, and yet she wanted nothing more than to make it disappear.

Without saying a word, Joanna unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse and slipped the clothing from her shoulders to drop to the floor. His gaze jumped from the blood stained tourniquet to her eyes.

She held them as she toed off her shoes and approached the bed. Then, in a move that was strangely sensual, she crawled across the covers to stretch out next to him.

She grabbed a pillow.

"Fair warning," she told him gravely, "Doctors make shoddy patients."

The weight in his gaze eased a bit and some of the tension left his shoulders, "From you, I would expect nothing less than absolutely abysmal."

She flopped onto her stomach in a huff, a parody of one of his sulks, "And just what makes you think I'd be such a terrible patient?"

"You're one of the best doctors I know, obviously that means you would be the worst patient on record."

She smothered her smile with the pillow.

As he arranged his supplies, Sherlock took the opportunity to examine Joanna's room.

Army neat, to be expected. Next to the vacant waste basket, a stack of books threatened to topple over at the slightest provocation. An eclectic selection of medical journals, well loved classics and a few romance novels. Though the latter group's spines weren't cracked and looked new, if dusty. They fell at the very bottom of the pile, likely an idle gift from her sister. Unused desk on one wall, Joanna preferred to blog in the sitting room. An over large wardrobe in the corner that held—currently? Very little.

He made a mental note to send her clothing out to the dry cleaners with his own order. A quick glance at her overstuffed hamper and he added a post script to offer up his spare dressing gown. She had stubbornly refused to do laundry and their case load hadn't allotted for much leisure anyways. She would want to shower at some point and she would obviously like to wear something clean.

It was the least he could do under the circumstances.

"Sherlock," Joanna grumbled at his inaction, "Do get on with it."

Let nothing be said of the lack of professionalism in Sherlock's bedside manner. It was his verbal snark that left something to be desired.

"You did bring this upon yourself," he reminded her, "_I_ was the one who wanted to leave if you'll remember."

His deft fingers made quick work of the makeshift tourniquet at her waist.

"And _I'm_ the one who wanted to finish the job properly," Joanna objected. "Not abandon it as soon as the thrill wears off."

She sucked in a sharp breath when the scarf caught at her wound. The dried blood acting as a natural glue before Sherlock gently pried it from her skin.

He sighed, "Your sense of duty knows no bounds."

He spread one of the towels out next to her, she shifted slightly and he tucked it neatly beneath her.

"Thank you for sparing my duvet the fate of a blood stain."

Sherlock plucked the remaining towel from the night stand and soaked it in the basin.

"You'd think as an army doctor you'd be used to such inevitability."

Joanna shrugged, "Maybe being a civilian has—hang on, what exactly is that?"

She stared pointedly at the basin. From the scent it obviously was not simply soap and water.

"Ah," Sherlock wrung out the towel, "A home remedy of my own concoction—don't worry, nothing remotely illegal."

She settled back into the pillows. "My own personal apothecary, how quaint."

Sherlock rolled his eyes before turning his not inconsiderable powers of concentration to the duty before him.

He used short, smart strokes around the wound to clean the area of debris, slowly working his way inward to the injury itself.

On making contact with the gash Joanna arched sharply. A disturbing, nearly obscene sound escaped her throat. He honestly could not determine if it was a good sign or a bad one.

"All right?" he ventured curiously.

"Damn that _stings_. What the devil did you put in it?"

"A cleansing solution, a few drops of antibiotics and a particularly clever—"

"You know what? Don't tell me. I can manage."

Surprisingly, the detective quieted and returned to his task. The dried blood was being especially difficult. 

He settled into a rhythm, the drip of the water, the scratch of the towel, the sting of the medicine. Despite her discomfort Joanna was growing drowsy.

"You know," she mumbled from her cradle of pillows, "I recognize that soap you're using. My mum used to use it on me and Harry when we'd get all scraped up. Actually it really was mostly me."

Drip, scratch, sting. "A simple cleansing solution." Sherlock responded, "Normal household item."

Joanna didn't seem to hear him, "I was always climbing things. I didn't fall that much, 'cept on my skates. Never fell out of a tree."

Sherlock wasn't quite certain if a response was required of him, but he supplied one anyway, "I was more fond of ponds and creeks myself. I was always walking home for supper in waterlogged trainers."

Joanna smiled, "Mum always lectured me on being more careful. But she patched me up quick and gave it a kiss as well. I got old enough to clean myself up but…they never seemed to heal as well as when mum did it."

"Your injuries undoubtedly became more severe the older you were; especially when you joined the army." Sherlock's eyes strayed to the knot of scar tissue at her shoulder.

Joanna chuckled, "Probably just a placebo effect anyhow." she yawned and burrowed further into her pillow.

Sherlock had long since abandoned the towel and was currently riffling through the med kit for a proper sized gauze patch and medical tape. When he finally settled on a patch that was just a mite too large for his liking, he realized Joanna's breathing had evened out.

It would seem she wasn't far from sleep.

As he fixed the bandage in place a sleepy voice emerged from the pillows. The words barely made it across the short space between them.

"Thanks Sherlock."

His hands stilled against her skin as her breathing deepened and evened into sleep.

Before he had a chance to process his actions Sherlock Holmes brought his fingertips to his lips and gently brushed them across the bandage.

"Sleep well, Joanna."


End file.
